Andrew rubbed his hands together, staring determinedly down at his feet. “She needs a chaperone, Your Grace,” the boy mumbled.
Edward frowned. “Chaperones are dowdy old spinsters. Are you a dowdy old spinster, Andrew?”
Andrew’s voice was steadier now and he almost met the duke’s stare. “No, Your Grace. But I’m better than nothing.”
Fiona wanted to cheer. Edward’s face suggested that he’d never had a footman challenge him in his life. Andrew, a touch pale from the encounter, nudged her forward, seemingly keen to put distance between himself and the duke.
“Well done, Andrew,” she murmured. “That was smashing. Once we get to the end of the street, do you ken which way we turn?” Fiona whispered, flicking her gaze over her shoulder and seeing that Edward still followed them.
“No, miss.”
“Well then, let’s just turn left.”
The next street was a long one and was taking them in roughly the right direction. She walked briskly, Andrew matching her furious pace.
He was right.That fact was almost as frustrating as what Edward was right about: today she’d been rejected over and over, not because of the quality of her idea, but because she wasMissMcTavish, not Mr.
Well, to hell with the men who couldn’t see past the dress she was wearing. Their rejections weren’t a reflection of her talent or her worth; they were illustrations of how murky the lens of social perception was. She could be the most intelligent person in a room, and she would be thought less of because she was a woman. The quality of her product would always be marred by the sex of its creator.
If she was going to succeed, she needed to remove that lens from the equation.
She needed to be a man.
Fiona will become Finley.
So far, no one—not the magistrate, not the constables, not the prison guards—had guessed that Finley was a woman. The only man who’d fathomed it was that fellow inmate, and even that was only because she’d forgotten to lower her voice.
She could do this. She could pass herself off as a businessman.
Once her matches were in production and were changing the world, she would reveal herself as a woman, and in doing so, change the world in a different way. She would prove that women scientists—women in general—had something to offer beyond tea and conversations about the weather.
But first, she needed to enact her charade.
They walked in silence up Pall Mall, Fiona’s new plan running through her head at breakneck speed. They turned right down St James Street, and right again until they were thoroughly lost. Frustrated, and with the blisters on her heel rubbing raw, she came to a stop and sighed.
“Andrew, please go ask the duke which way we need to go.”
There was no need to ask. Edward had caught up to them the moment they stopped and was looking down at her with a gratified smirk. “It’s left down here. Are you sure you don’t want to take the carriage? You’re limping.”
“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” she said.
“Stubborn mule,” he muttered. They walked—she hobbled—in burdened silence until they reached the intersection of Berkeley Square and Mount Street, where traffic had come to a snarling halt. An overturned cart had scattered barrels of lamp oil across the sidewalk, which was now coated with the thick liquid.
“Take my hand,” Edward said. “You can barely walk as it is.”
And that was the problem with the duke. It wasn’t an offer or request; it was a demand. If he’d asked, then perhaps she would have accepted. Heaven only knew her feet were killing her. But it was the principle of the thing.
In hindsight, she should have looked past his arrogance this one time. Or asked Andrew for help. Or at least have let the footman take her bag rather than wallowing in her snit.
As she lifted her skirts with her free hand and tiptoed her way through the slippery mess, her feet gave way beneath her. Instinctively, one arm hugged the satchel, protecting its contents as she went down. She fell hard on her hand, her hip, and then her head, which smacked on the pavement with a heavy thud.
Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.
She exhaled sharply, hoping the breath would take with it some of the pain. She couldn’t tell what was worse—the throbbing of her skull or the shooting pain in her wrist.
Edward was by her side instantly, his hands going to her head and feeling her skull gently with his fingers. She winced as they found a swollen egg.
“Can you sit?”
